


directions

by tzrbup



Category: The Goldfinch - Donna Tartt
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-07
Updated: 2018-04-07
Packaged: 2019-04-19 11:10:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14235990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tzrbup/pseuds/tzrbup
Summary: Alright, you thought to yourself finally. I’m lost. So what.





	directions

_Alright,_ you thought to yourself finally. _I’m lost. So what._

You hesitated, but didn’t stop. If you stopped you’d look even more like a tourist and despite that being the truth you were painfully conscious of your small-town Southern origins and didn’t want to give any passerby reason to scoff at the clueless hick. So, still walking, you contemplated your options.

Though you hated to do it, it seemed the only viable course of action was to ask someone; wandering New York City aimlessly with a dead phone seemed like exactly the kind of behavior that your grandmother would have taken up at you for had she still been alive. There were, upon observation, two other pedestrians on the sidewalk with you, both ahead of you; a shorter man in a tailored gray overcoat who glanced around self-consciously every few moments in a manner he seemed to misguidedly believe wasn’t obvious, and a much taller black-haired man, well-dressed (some might say extravagantly) save for a pair of clunky army boots. The shorter man was a few paces behind the taller one, and the taller one appeared to be enthusiastically talking to himself and also looked generally sort of dangerous (you’d had enough danger for a lifetime, thank you) so you quickened your step a bit and tapped the shorter man on the shoulder.

He turned, surprised, with a look of reflexive irritation in his eye. He was much younger than you expected (at forty-four you weren’t that old either, though you often felt it) and well-groomed, wearing a pair of geeky round tortoiseshell glasses. Absently, you noticed the taller man had stopped walking as well.

“Excuse me,” you started. “Sorry to bother, but do you know how to g—"

  
“Potter!” The taller man shouted rather unnecessarily, given that he was suddenly standing right next to the two of you. “Thought you were walking right with me! Rascal bastard! His words, though harsh (and heavily accented—Russian, you thought, which would have raised your grandmother’s hackles for sure), were affectionate rather than angry, and he threw an arm around the shoulders of the other man as he spoke. The shorter man—Potter?—rolled his eyes and stiffened.

“Was talking to myself, practically! Very embarrassing!” The tall man continued loudly without a trace of embarrassment while Potter tried to disappear into his expensive gray coat.

“I'm sorry, ma'am, I've never seen this man before in my life, I—"

“And stopped to talk to a lady, hm? Should I be jealous?” Then, as you scowled and Potter went bright red, he stepped forward and seized your limp hand, shaking it vigorously. “Boris! Hello!”

“Charmed, I’m sure.” Potter mumbled sarcastically from behind him. Boris opened his mouth again, so you cut him off quickly.

“Actually,” you said, raising your voice over whatever he was trying to say, “I was wondering if you knew how to get to the Met.”

Potter’s eyes clouded instantly, in stark contrast to the polite smile that had suddenly appeared on his face.

“Oh, sure,” he said stiffly, and started rattling off directions while Boris smiled fondly and attempted to ruffle his hair (Potter batted his hands away without pausing his speech).

“Wait, wait,” Boris said suddenly. “Silly Theo—” (shaking his head fondly, darting a hand forward in an attempt to tickle that Potter—Theo—sidestepped with practiced ease) “—that’s not right, that—"  


“Who’s the New Yorker, huh, Boris?” Theo snapped irritably, with more venom than seemed strictly necessary. You blinked, taken aback; you were no saint of patience either, but even to you it seemed an overreaction.

“Well, neither, now, no? Not now that the last of your things—"

“Listen, Boris, just—just shut up a second, okay? I know what I’m doing.” Boris rolled his eyes and shoved his hands in his pockets like a scolded child, only to replace his arm around Theo a moment later. You narrowed your eyes, puzzled by the interaction.

“Don’t mind him. He’s not house trained yet.” Theo said coolly, and ducked away from an attempted noogie before continuing to give his directions over Boris’s protests.

“Er… thanks,” you said, not sure what to make of them or of Theo’s directions (but then again, they were your only lead, and God knows you’d made worse decisions with less information). Theo nodded curtly and Boris beamed at you with an enthusiastic wave and used the arm he had around Theo to start to steer him back to their course. 

“Enjoy the art, lovely! Not too much, th—oof!” He was cut off by a firm elbow to the ribs.

“Good luck.” Theo said, which was not at all reassuring, and in fact slightly ominous.

“Y’all have a good day, now.” You said warily, and turned to walk in what turned out to be entirely the wrong direction.

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first fic for the goldfinch! let me know if i should write more? no promises as i find inspiration for fic hard to come by but i'll give it a shot if people want!
> 
> follow my goldfinch blog: kotku.tumblr.com


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